by Allan Cole
Luka took heart, smacking one taloned fist into the other. "Exactly!" he said. "In the end, there's nothing but the sea. And if we keep going like we are we'll have him pinned against it. With nowhere to go."
Protarus shook his head, his scarred smile making Luka's heart jump. "Not likely," he said.
"There's one thing we've all overlooked, Majesty," Fari said. "I blame myself for not seeing it before."
"What's that?" the king prodded.
"Until a few months ago everything Prince Luka just said appeared true. Lord Timura was behaving exactly as described. Dashing this way and that with no other apparent purpose than to escape us.
"Then everything changed. Just before the, uh…" he gave Protarus a sympathetic look, "…the uh … most unfortunate attack on Your Majesty … he leaped onto one road. And then stayed on that road, never varying his direction or using his usual tricks."
Kalasariz cleared his throat. "Actually," he said, "it happened after Naadan. We tracked him to the ravine. He tried to escape, but we had the, uh … the uh…" he glanced at Protarus "the, uh … Lady Sheesan to help us. Then he got on this road and went like the hells."
"He must have made some kind of decision in Naadan," Protarus said. Then he grimaced, remembering the magical stallion. "Or maybe even before. Perhaps he meant to go to Naadan all along. And then …
and then…" He shrugged. "My logic takes me no further. So he travels through the Black Lands. What does that tell us? Nothing."
He sighed, adding, "Except that Safar is as brave as ever. We have two hundred wizards with us. He has only himself. And yet he dashes across the Black Lands while we stand here afraid to set our toes in it."
"It's the machine, Majesty," Luka pointed out. "We know that somewhere out there a great magical machine has gone wild. We have to be sure we have the right spells before we proceed. It's the prudent thing to do, isn't that right, Lord Fari?"
The old demon brushed away Luka's desperate clutch to rejoin him on the side of safety. "I don't think our esteemed Majesty wants to hear about prudence right now, My Lord," he said.
Kalasariz, the most cautious of men, agreed. "Bold action is the only course," he said, aligning himself with Fari. Thinking, you cunning old foul-breathed devil. I just know you have something up your sleeve.
Now, let's see it.
He was startled when the king, as if reading his thoughts, said, "Let's see it, Fari! What are you leading up to?"
"Why, the heads, Your Majesty," Fari said, "The heads." He gestured at the completed pair. "Beautiful, aren't they?" He said this as if they were the greatest works of art, instead of two ghastly things with dead eyes and slack mouths.
Luka found reason to murmur appreciatively, as did Kalasariz. The king only frowned, impatient.
"It's like this, Your Majesty," Fari said. "The Black Lands have confounded us for a few days, no doubt about it. But they also give us an opportunity. With all the magical insanity raging out there, it's highly unlikely that Lord Timura could maintain his usual shields. Why, all my wizards together couldn't do it and as great as Lord Timura's reputation might be, I suspect he's met his match with that machine.
"So he'll be going naked, as it were. Using all his powers just to throw up a small ring of protection around his people. There's nearly a thousand of them, if you recall, Majesty. That is an enormous amount of people for one wizard to shield, especially in the Black Lands."
He gestured at the heads. "These people were captives from a nearby village. They were born and raised next to this region, continually bathed in all the sorcery leaking out. They had no magic of their own, of course, but when I saw our soldiers making sport with them, it came to me that they would be very sensitive to it." He shrugged, "That was my guess, at any rate. Subsequent experiments proved my theory."
"Now I understand," Kalasariz said, smiling, feeling pleased he'd jumped in the right direction. To seal his position he hastened to explain, whether anyone needed the explanation or not.
"Lord Timura is not only vulnerable to a casting," he said, "but those are the ideal devices for the casting spell."
"As always, My Lord," Fari said, "you are most astute even in matters that aren't your expertise."
"You are too kind, My Lord," Kalasariz murmured.
Luka said nothing.
"Enough!" Protarus barked. "You're mooning over each other like a pair of harem girls. Do the casting, dammit! Let's see what Safar's up to!"
Safar goggled at the scene, not sure which was real and which the apparition. The threatening horde of warriors, or Leiria and Dario laughing and waving in greeting.
Then he had even more reason to goggle as a large figure rose from the table, saying, "Welcome to Caluz, Safar Timura. We have been waiting many a year for your visit."
The speaker was female-a demon female. And as she spoke she made a motion and the ghostly soldiers vanished.
She was a spectacular sight. Even taller than a large male demon, she was dressed entirely in red-a red gown of the finest Sampitay silk; red shoes beneath that gown with the sheen of a rare jewel. Her talons were painted red, as were her lips curling up in a red painted demon smile above fangs like spears. A ruby crown was set upon her jutting forehead-just above her ivory white demon horn, which was decorated with red magical symbols.
Big as she was, demon as she was, none of these things were the true reasons for Safar's amazement.
What had his complete attention was her gown, which was embroidered with a startlingly familiar decoration. The winged, two-headed snake that was the sign of Asper.
She came toward him and Safar whispered assurances to Khysmet, who was still uneasy, then swung off the saddle to greet her.
Safar had never been aboard a ship, but in his imagination the demon queen-for her bearing left no doubt she was a queen-looked like a ship as she came to him, red gown billowing like great sails.
Despite her size she was incredibly graceful, moving with smooth and sweet femininity. An odd side of him, a primitive side most men would rather not discuss, took note of her remarkable figure. She was large, yes. A demon, yes. But her shape was the perfect hourglass that dumbfounds all human and demon males.
When they came together, pausing for the formal greeting, Safar felt shamefaced, like a boy.
She held out her claw, dainty as a maid, saying, "I am Hantilia. Queen of Caluz. And chief priestess to the Oracle of Hadin."
In Protarus' court Lord Fari was making his final preparations.
"I'll need your help, Majesty," he said. He motioned to the others, Prince Luka and Lord Kalasariz. "All of you must help. To ferret out Safar Timura we need the full powers of the Spell of the Four."
Everyone leaned forward, concentrating, as Lord Fari made magical motions over the heads, chanting: Speak, my Brother.
Speak, my Sister.
Speak, O creatures of the Shades!
What road does Timura take?
What goal does he seek?
And what is his heart's desire?
Soul numbing shrieks shattered the air as both heads came alive. Their eyes burned with pain and they screamed to the heavens as they relived their final moments on the sporting field. Their anguish was so deep that it pierced Iraj's shape changer's heart and struck at the core that was still human.
Their wails echoed throughout the royal chamber, hammering at his ears and rattling the small, scarred thing he called a soul. He wanted to shout at Fari to end their agony and his misery, but he clipped it off, gagging on guilt. To do otherwise would show a dangerous weakness.
Then, thankfully, Fari waved a claw and the wailing stopped. Two pairs of haunted eyes turned to regard the demon wizard.
"Speak, my sister," Fari chanted. "Speak, my brother. Grant us this boon and we shall release you from all your cares."
The woman spoke first, voice quaking with pain. "He is near!" she said. "He is very, very near!"
Then the man, in equal agony-"Yes, he is near! Run my friend, r
un from these devils!"
The woman shouted-"No, don't run! Please don't run! Save us, Safar Timura! Save us!"
Fari chortled. "What willful heads," he said to Iraj and the others. "No matter. They're very young and so it's to be expected."
Then, to his victims-"Lord Timura can't hear you. And even if he could, there'd be no help. You are in our care, my lovelies. Only I can help you. Now speak. What road does Timura take?"
And the woman said, "The king's road."
"What king?" Fari pressed. "Tell us his name."
"Protarus," the man croaked.
"Timura and the king," the woman said, "travel the same road."
Fari was clearly puzzled. Luka, seeing slender hope, said, "I knew this was nonsense from the start."
But Protarus shouted, "Silence, you fool!"
The outburst surprised Iraj as much as the demon prince. Mysterious as the answers were, they made ghostly, skin-prickling sense.
Emboldened, Fari continued. "What goal does he seek?"
"Hadin," the woman said. "The Land of Fires."
And the man said, "Two were together. But now there is one."
Iraj shuddered as the words unleashed memory's flood. Suddenly he was a boy. And Safar was with him, casting the demon bones to see what the future held.
He remembered the red smoke hissing up, rising like a snake. Then out of the smoke a mouth formed, curving into a woman's seductive smile. Then she spoke, and he could hear the words clear echoing down the long corridor of years:
"Two will take the road that two traveled before. Brothers of the spirit, but not the womb.
Separate in body and mind, but twins in destiny. But beware what you seek, O brothers. Bewarethe path you choose. For this tale cannot end until you reach the Land of Fires."
Then he was jolted back to the present as Fari asked the final question:
"What is his heart's desire?"
And the woman said, "Love."
And the man said, "Hate."
And Fari shouted, "Answer clearly, or I'll blast your souls to the Hells!"
But once again Iraj could glimpse cloudy meaning and the two words, "love" and "hate" churned about in his guts.
Kalasariz spoke up. "Some of my spies are like that. Ask the time and they count the grains of sand in the glass. Perhaps our questions are too general."
Fari took heart and tried again. "Tell me brother, tell me sister, where is Lord Timura now?"
"Caluz," the man answered.
Fari was pleased. "Who does he seek there?"
"The Oracle of Hadin."
"Now it makes sense!" Kalasariz said. He turned to Iraj. "There is a famous oracle at Caluz. Called the Oracle of Hadin, I believe."
Fari could see his victims were tiring. He wracked his brains for a last question.
Then, "Tell me brother, tell me sister, what is Lord Timura's purpose in Caluz?"
The answer came in a ghastly chorus: "To kill the king."
Then their eyes went lifeless, their lips slack, and blood gushed to the floor.
Fari turned to address the king, rattling his talons in glee. But when he saw the state Protarus was in, he kept his silence. He noticed Kalasariz and Luka were also staring in wordless fascination. The king was flickering from one shape to the other at a blinding rate, claw and maw and handsome human profile winking in and out of existence.
Iraj knew his emotions were an unchecked torrent, but he couldn't help himself. The announcement that Safar sought his death had unaccountably ripped him from his moorings. He suddenly felt as if he were the hunted, instead of the hunter. He knew this made no sense. Safar was the deer, Iraj the bowman.
Still, he'd felt a chill run down his spine when the words were spoken: "To kill the king."
Then fear turned to mad outrage. This was betrayal! Safar was his friend! How could he possibly plot to assassinate a friend? Never mind that Iraj tried to kill Safar long ago and had sought his death since.
Never mind that Safar had struck back furiously, nearly killing Iraj and destroying his kingdom. Deadly blows had been exchanged many times over the years. Safar Timura was clearly his enemy. But why did Iraj still feel he was also a friend? A friend bent on betrayal and murder?
All these thoughts and emotions stormed about his heart and brain, then anger took root and bloomed into a mighty tree, spreading strong branches of rage all through his body from toe to nape.
With anger came cold reason and purpose and fully human now, he rose to his feet. Golden beard and head and crown glowing in the torch light. He was Iraj Protarus, by the gods! The King of Kings. Lord of the Shape Changers. Greater even then the Conqueror Alisarrian, who was a mere mortal, wizard though he had been.
"We all owe you a great debt, my lord," he said to Fari, who visibly preened, not caring if Luka or Kalasariz noticed. "Now we know not only exactly where Safar Timura is hiding, but we know that Caluz has been his goal all along.
"Timura is not a man to just run and hide. He was mountain born and people who live so high above us all have courage and will bred into them. They breathe air so thin it would make you faint. I lived among them once, so I know. I was weak and light-headed for days before I found my footing. In fact, I think that's the reason for it. The reason Safar and his Kyranians have managed to defy us for so long.
"It's the air, dammit! And I curse myself for missing it all this time. I'm a man of the plains. The air is thick and healthy on the plains. Now water, that's scarce and all our wars rise from that. But water is nothing compared to air. Can you imagine living in a place where you had to fight for the very air to sustain you?"
No one answered. The king's anger made speech unwise.
"They can also see! Oh, by the gods can they see! Up in that eagle's nest they called Kyrania, they could see the most amazing horizons. Horizons so distant they confounded me. Me, a simple man of the plains where all is flat and you drown in the air and you can't imagine what it really is to see. All the way around you-all the time. That's what separates Kyranians from ordinary mortals. The power to see.
"That's another thing we must remember. Safar is the greatest Kyranian of them all, for he can see the future. And sometimes I think he can imagine more. If there is a place that lies beyond the future, Safar can see it.
"But he has to kill me first." The king slammed his throne over, shattering the wood against ground.
He turned to Fari, who was frightened, no longer so desirous of the king's attention.
"Tell me, Lord Fari," he said, his tone fearfully close to the one the demon had used addressing the heads, "And tell me true. Does Safar have to kill me to get to Hadin? Isn't that what your heads were telling us?"
Fari called on all his skills to slip to a middle course. He shrugged.
"Who can say, Your Majesty?" he said in his most oily voice. "Our casting was not plain on that point."
The king merely nodded, so Fari braved thinner ice. "We should be practical about this, Your Majesty,"
he said. "Hadin is so far away it was known as World's End by the ancients. Surely, this place is out of anyone's reach.
"Far-seeing though he may be, I think it would be wiser to surmise that Lord Timura's goal is more reasonable. Forget about World's End. Think of Esmir, only. It would be far seeing enough of Lord Timura to conclude that his answer was in Caluz. In the center of the Black Lands where a magical machine has gone wild.
"He must overcome the devil machine, the desolate land, the low spirits of his people-everything-to consult with the Oracle of Hadin. And there he must pray that he can find a means to kill the most powerful king in history."
He snorted. "Come, now, Your Majesty! That is seeing very far, beyond not only the future, but hope itself. And as for the business with the air, Highness, I think he's breathing something very thin indeed to conjure up such an impossible task."
"Here, here," Luka said, making the king smile and gaining back a bit of grace.
"Lord Fari speaks wisely,
Majesty," Kalasariz said, tipping a wink at the old demon that meant, 'We must talk.'
Although no plan had been set, the unholy three, as Iraj had come to think of his brothers, acted as if victory had already been won. They called for food and drink and music and dancers to celebrate. Iraj tilted his scarred lip, making them believe he was fooled by their actions.
Oh, but he was cold, so cold. Damnation he could see it clear. Like Safar could see distant horizons.
Iraj was no fool-even though he was a king, and kings, it is said, make the grandest fools of all. He knew what was going on. His brothers of the spell conspired against one another and they all conspired, separately and together in various alliances, against him. Sheesan had warned him about that.
He felt a pang, thinking of that strange, beauteous witch. How could she have borne appearing like such a crone, when she had been a woman of such beauty and wonder. She had her own designs, of course-some of which she'd even admitted. But that hadn't bothered him. Iraj had learned early that no one addresses royalty without base motives. Even Safar, pure, humble, "I'm only a potter's son," Safar, had something he wanted when he joined Iraj in his mission. He wanted Iraj's power. Safar was jealous because Iraj Protarus was favored by the gods! Destined at birth to be king of kings.
But what was it Safar claimed he wanted? Oh, yes-to save the world. What a lie that was!
Iraj scraped at his chair with a heavy ring, smiling at his false brothers as they drank and made merry jests about the human and demon maids who danced for their pleasure. They pretended to chatter happily about their king, their wise, strong king, and how they would stretch every tendon in his effort.
Talking about this plan of attack and that.
Fari was saying something about gathering all his wizards to cast a spell to protect them all from the wild magic of the Black Lands. Luka was laying plans to create the greatest mounted shock force in history.
As if the Kyranians were the half million demons Iraj once defeated to gain his crown, instead of a handful of hastily trained peasants. And Kalasariz-Damnation! Safar warned me about him, I'd better be careful-Kalasariz was slipping up to Fari, saying this and that and glancing in Luka's direction. What Iraj would have to watch for was when Kalasariz looked in his direction.